Asylum
by writer02135
Summary: Stacy Lamm has never really taken a psychology course in her life. What would drive her to apply for a job at Arkham Asylum, then? Could it be the pay? Or could she simply just have no idea what she's getting into? Terrible Summary. No pairings yet.


**Chapter 1: You're Hired**

**Ketsora: This is just me taking a break from Cherry Blossoms again. This story just came to me, and, well here goes nothing.**

**I own nothing except Stacy Lamm.**

**This is not my best fanfiction, so all criticism is welcome. Please request any pairings you would like. **

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Geez. I make one mistake, and I'm out of my job.

I flipped the page angrily, scanning the jobs section of the newspaper. Delivery service. Maid. Janitor. "No thanks," I grumbled.

In large print, it stated, "Psychiatrist wanted. Arkham Asylum." I pursed my lips together thoughtfully. When I searched for the salary, I nearly fainted.

"There's six digits there," I mused, folding the paper up. As I committed the address to memory, I ran out to my crappy old sedan.

**(Arkham)**

"Nice décor," was my first impression. The large wrought-iron gate was open, so I took my first few steps toward the large brick asylum.

The first person I encountered introduced herself as Dr. Joan Leland. I happily shook her hand as I took a quick glance around my workplace. Warm colors. And by that, I mean black and brown. Lovely.

"Good afternoon Miss Lamm. It's nice to meet you," Leland was very cordial. Almost a little too much so. "So, doctor, do I have any competition for this position?" I asked. Dr. Leland shook her head, "You're the only one. Seems that our record precedes us." Damn. A catch. "Your record?" I ventured. She smiled. "Surely, you already know. Anyone who takes this position ends up in an insane asylum themselves."

Crap.

"A famous example would be our very own Harley Quinn," Dr. Leland nodded to the blond who was chewing bubble-gum in her cell to my left. "I never knew that the Joker's clown was a psychiatrist," I attempted to keep the conversation going. Leland must have sensed my slight panic, and she said, "So, what're your qualifications?"

"I've taken a few courses," I admitted. A few? What a liar. I really doubt that the one lecture I only half listened to would count for shit where I was. Ah well.

"Your last place of employment?" Dr. Leland was bringing me deeper into the asylum. Offices lined the wall to our right.

"Last place of employment? Burger King," I said. Dr. Leland's face dropped. "You're sure you can handle this job?" she asked rather skeptically.

I stared at her for a long moment. "Hey, all of the over-qualified fools you hired have turned out… well… insane… So maybe a less-qualified gal can hold her own a little longer."

Dr. Leland shrugged. "Makes about as much sense as anything around here. Your office is number 20. Here's the key."

The office was as bright as the rest of the drab building. One wood desk. One blue swivel chair. One large, towering, precariously tilted bookcase. Joy.

The first order of business was to get an idea of what I was getting myself into. A large binder took up most of the first shelf. It was labeled: "Inmates." That's a good place to start. I pulled the binder out, only to have several other books fly out at me like bats and nearly crush me.

"Shit, there are a lot of these psychos. Snapshot, he's in here for killing numerous tourists with a killer camera. And this wacko. And this one," I flipped every heavy page with caution. There was no order to the profiles. Every page contained a recent photo of the criminal, and random newspaper articles pertaining to their crimes or habits. Occasionally there would be notes showing any known relatives, and profiling their relations with other inmates.

I checked my watch. It was noon, so I placed the binder on my desk, as to avoid another traumatic book-avalanche. Looking around, I saw many white-coat orderlies escorting prisoners to the mess-hall. I decided to follow them; it really couldn't hurt the getting to know the psychos process.

I fell in behind the last two inmates, who I recognized as Harley Quinn and Jonathan Crane. Or as he preferred, "The Scarecrow, Master of Fear!" Harley turned to me and waved, "Hey, doc! You're new here, ain't 'cha?" I nodded. I couldn't remember off the top of my head if she was particularly hostile towards our kind. Better be safe than dead, of course.

"I'm Harley Quinn. Nice to meet ya. You're in Office 20. That's weird, 'cos that was my old office," she babbled. I instantly regretted filing in behind her. But we were almost there. "Professor Crane! Do you know what's for lunch today?" Harley continued. Crane looked at her, "No. I never do, honestly." Harley shrugged, and before she had time to attack me with another interesting fact, they were pushed away to their assigned tables.

Catching my breath again, I slowly took a look at my assignments for today. First and foremost, was my first therapy session. With none other than Harley Quinn. I groaned mentally, and headed back to my office. There, the desperate search began to find a chair for my patient. I found one in the corner. It was holding a lamp, so it was easy to miss.

Two o'clock. Time for the moment of truth. Can I really help an insane person on my one psychology class? Probably not, but I may be pleasantly surprised.

Harley waltzed in and sat down in the chair. She crossed her legs and looked at me intently. "What's up doc?" she smiled.

"Why don't you tell me, Harley?" I started, "Um… how's your life?" Harley sighed, "To tell ya the truth, life ain't been as good as it could be. My puddin' has been gone for a few weeks, and it looks like he isn't gonna spring me out anytime soon."

Puddin'? "Who?" I asked. "Mistah J, of course!" Harley looked at me like I was a complete idiot. Mr. J. Let's see… oh yeah… Harley's record had mentioned an extreme obsession with the Joker.

"And how does that make you feel?" I pressed. I had always wanted to use that line. "It makes me feel flat out depressed. It just ain't fair, doc!" she pouted, and shifted uneasily in her chair.

There was another note in there about her relations with the other inmates. She had a best friend… Pamela Isley. "So, have you and Miss Isley still been on speaking terms?" I ventured.

"Yeah. Red and I have been just fine. But still, there's no Mistah J." Harley looked so distraught. I wondered if it was a bad thing to do to just give her a few anti-depressants. I ruled it out. With my luck, she'd become addicted.

"What do you see in the Joker?" The question hung in the air for a few minutes until she took a deep breath and sighed. "Everything, doc. I see a great, funny, caring gentleman who's always there for me. He's what every gal wants. He's my puddin'."

I was getting quite bored. Well, since the Joker made her depressed, maybe I could learn a little about Isley, since I have her next session.

"Back to the topic of Miss Isley, how did you two meet?"

Harley looked at me. "You haven't been a doctor long, have ya?" she questioned me. Then she answered _my _question. "I met Red when Mistah J. kicked me out. I tried pulling off a heist, and I ended up helping her escape. We went to her place, and hung out for a while. Ya know, terrorizing Gotham, stuff like that."

Actually, I _don't_ know, but this was more interesting than her puddin'. Terrorizing people always makes for a good story.

"Then we tied up Batman and pushed him into a pool of toxins. Then Mistah J. tried to get me back, and Red and I escaped for a little while," Harley continued.

I nodded. "That's… uh… all for now… I guess. You can go now," I dismissed the clown girl, and she just laughed. "You're all right, doc. At least you don't try to persuade me to give up my love for my puddin' like Dr. Leland does."

She walked out of my office, and I went back to my desk. I had a long way to go before I could get anything done here.


End file.
